


the language of blood

by almostannette



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Illya POV, Introspection, anger issues, character exploration, coming of age ficlet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:47:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21889915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/almostannette/pseuds/almostannette
Summary: Blood flows from Illya Kuryakin's nose. It drips onto the ground below, staining the ash-grey pavement a deep crimson.Illya pants, breathing through his mouth. He licks his lips and the blood leaves a metallic taste in his mouth, unpleasant but familiar.It's not the first time he's gotten into a fight. It won't be the last.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin & Napoleon Solo
Comments: 9
Kudos: 30





	the language of blood

**Author's Note:**

> Ever since I watched TMFU for the first time last year, I've had these characters stuck in my head. :) I'm planning to write more TMFU content in the future, and this ficlet is an attempt to get familiar with the characters (well, one of the characters for a start)

Blood flows from Illya Kuryakin's nose. It drips onto the ground below, staining the ash-grey pavement a deep crimson, the color of the state flag.

Illya pants, breathing through his mouth. He licks his lips and the blood leaves a metallic taste in his mouth, unpleasant but familiar.

It's not the first time he's gotten into a fight. It won't be the last.

Illya raises his fists, with their bruised knuckles and bitten fingernails, ready to defend himself, facing his opponents again for the next round of their fight.

The mouths of his three assailants are twisted into triumphant grins or haughty sneers. Illya can't tell the difference anymore, it all looks the same to him.

They're enemies, that's what matters.

Illya has a wide-eyed, half-crazed look on his face and a teeth-baring snarl that comes out like the sounds a wounded animal makes, ready for a duel to the death.

The deck is stacked against Illya in every way.

His opponents are two years older than him, and puberty has already started to fill out their frame with lean muscle and adolescent strength.

His assailants are fourteen.

Illya is just twelve, tall for his age but lanky as anything. He's a far cry from the agent he will become. His limbs are still waiting for the rabid strength fueled by adulthood and testosterone they will one day command.

Right now, he's just a skinny boy on the cusp of manhood with a spotty face, a bloody nose, and righteous anger.

His opponents mocked his mother.

Illya throws himself at them, straddling the thin line between valor and desperation.

* * *

A few minutes later, the three boys have beaten Illya into submission.

The blood in his mouth mixes with dirt and Illya bites the gash on his lower lip as hard as he can to hold back the hot tears of anger burning in his eyes.

It won't be his last fight, not by a long shot.

However, lying in the dirt, soaked in humiliation and defeat, Illya Kuryakin makes a promise to himself.

He will learn how to defend himself. 

He will learn how to fight back.

* * *

As soon as he’s old enough, Illya joins the Red Army, becomes part of the Special Forces and is chosen to join the KGB, becoming their best agent. He's a fighter, he will not be helpless anymore and if he has to redeem the Kuryakin name single-handedly, so be it.

* * *

"...extremely _popular_ among your father's friends," Solo says, giving Illya a peculiar look.

His fingers start twitching, his jaw clenches and adrenaline rushes into his veins, making his heart beat faster.

A thin veil of red clouds his vision.

Solo's too pretty, Illya thinks. How dare he look at him like that, not a single hair out of place as though Illya didn't just beat him up an hour ago.

He wants to smash in Solo's pretty face until there's nothing left until Solo can never disrespect anyone ever again and...

Solo raises his coffee cup to his lips as though he hasn't just said the one thing he knows will provoke Illya like nothing else.

As though he hasn't goaded him on purpose, as though he wants...

Illya stands up, flipping over the table. Porcelain shatters on the floor, splashing water and coffee everywhere.

Solo seems only mildly impressed.

Illya is ready to pounce on him until he remembers a single, decisive fact.

Last night, when he was holding on to the trunk of the chop shop girl's car, Solo had a gun pointed at him.

Solo had the opportunity to end him then and there.

But he didn't.

Solo spared him; he owes him a life debt, and Illya intends to repay it right then and there. He doesn’t want to owe Solo anything.

One last furious look at Solo and then Illya leaves the café with long strides, breathing heavily.

He doesn’t look back.

Napoleon Solo has gotten under his skin and the prospect of having to work with him? He’s not looking forward to it and he can’t imagine that sentiment will change any time soon.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is currently unbeta'd - also, English is not my native language, so should you have noticed any mistakes, I would appreciate it if you let me know! :)
> 
> If you liked this fic, please consider leaving a comment and/or kudos! <3


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